Sensitivity to Touch
by Remy Beauregarde
Summary: John is ticklish on his neck. Sherlock finds out, forgets, remembers, and experiments. A bit strange, but please enjoy.


**Please enjoy. It came to me a couple nights ago. What if John was ticklish and Sherlock found out? What would happen? Well, here it is. ~ Remy B.**

John Watson's neck had always been extremely sensitive. When they were young, Harry would delightedly sit on her brother and tickle him until he passed out or she was told to get off him. It was one of her favorite past times and John quickly learned how to avoid her whenever possible.

As his reflexes were honed, Harry found that chasing John down and tickling him added to the fun. It's no wonder John moved out when he got into college. Although Harry left before him, she still enjoyed tickling him when she visited home. So John learned to only visit his parents when Harry wouldn't be there.

It was a bit of an awkward incident that led Sherlock to the discovery of John's sensitivity.

Remember when John managed to magically get Sherlock home after Irene drugged him? Well, on the way to the flat, Sherlock decided that his head was much too heavy to hold up on his own so he acquired John's involuntary assistance. Sherlock _thunked_ his head right onto John's shoulder and nuzzled his soft curls into his flatmate's neck.

John found this to be _quite_ sensitive and squealed while jerking away from Sherlock, who's no longer supported head, fell onto John's right thigh.

John tensed and said, "Sorry, Sherlock. You probably didn't realize I'm very ticklish on my neck." John was struck by this thought:

_Why would Sherlock care that John was ticklish on his neck?_

Sherlock just moaned and tried to sit up. John took pity on him and helped him by sliding his hands under Sherlock's shoulders and lifting. With a deep-set whine Sherlock regained his previous posture…and slid back towards John's shoulder.

John saw it coming and positioned his back towards the door of the cab before Sherlock's dangerously soft curls could make John squeal like a schoolgirl again. And so it was that Sherlock rested against John's chest.

John's constant thought was that he was glad no one could see them clearly or else they'd talk.

This is when Sherlock gained back a _slight_ bit of speech control. "People do…little else…John." Sherlock's head was tilted up to look John in the eyes.

John chuckled and Sherlock wheezed out a short laugh.

Despite not being able to manage much more in the form of words Sherlock wasn't especially embarrassing. As long as John didn't count the nonsense phrases Sherlock yelled when John pulled him up out of the cab once they arrived at Baker Street.

Or when Sherlock tried to fight off imaginary foes with wild swings of his imaginary cutlass and almost smacked John in the face.

Or when, on the last two steps, Sherlock's knees gave out for the final time and he raised his arms and looked at John helplessly from the floor. Or when, he chose the precise moment that John set foot over the threshold with Sherlock in his arms to say, "If the fangirls could see us now..."

John rolled his eyes, thought about how glad they couldn't, and took it all in stride because that's what best friends do. They forgive their drugged flatmate's nonsense…and wish that they'd got it on film.

What John really hoped was that Sherlock wouldn't remember about his ticklish neck. He would hate to have a repeat of his younger days.

Sherlock lay prone on the sofa. It had been a month since he was drugged. He was going through his Mind Palace throwing out useless information. He came across a foggy memory of a cab, the smell of John, and a high pitched noise. Had they hit a schoolgirl? No. It had come from John. If it had been a schoolgirl Sherlock would've heard. However he couldn't recollect why John had turned into a little girl when Sherlock's hair touched him.

Sherlock jolted upright. Time for an experiment.

First he needed to find John.

He found him in the kitchen fixing tea.

Sherlock softly padded up behind his flatmate. John didn't notice his presence. Good.

Sherlock reached out his long fingers and gently, gently stroked the right side of John's neck.

John's response was immediate. He dropped his teacup on the counter with a noise fairly similar to the one in the cab a month ago and jerked to the left away from Sherlock's touch.

"Bloody-" John stopped when he realized it was Sherlock. _Of course_, it was Sherlock. John had a feeling he already knew why his strange friend had touched him, but decided to go ahead with:

"Sherlock, why?"

Then, "Has all the talk of us being a couple gotten to you, finally?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the second question and answered with his own.

"Are you _really_ ticklish on your _neck_?"

"No. I felt a spider on my neck."

"John, you're in a corner. I wouldn't use sarcasm if I were you."

"Yes, you would."

Sherlock thought for a moment and decided that, yes, he would use sarcasm while backed into a corner. Nevertheless, "Where else are you ticklish?" Sherlock wanted to know the extent of his flatmate's sensitivity. It may prove useful for…something.

John stiffened. He was _not_ going to tell Sherlock he was extremely ticklish _everywhere_. Harry knew. If Sherlock really wanted to know he could go and ask her – wait…never mind. John didn't want his sister to think that he and Sherlock were playing tickle games. It was bad enough that everyone thought they were a couple.

So John, doing the only thing he knew was safest, kept quiet and stared straight ahead.

Sherlock's lips pulled up. John didn't like that look.

"John," Sherlock warned, "You would do better to tell me."

John _did not_ like that look. He was reluctant, however, to reveal what he had kept secret for so long. For a moment he didn't have to because the kettle went off. John eased around Sherlock and turned it off. He righted his teacup and fixed his tea. Sherlock huffed and went back to the sofa. John was safe…for now.

John sloooooooowly drank his tea. He managed to make three cups last for an hour and fifteen minutes. Tea is a wonderful thing except when it gets to your bladder. Three cupfuls of tea hitting your bladder is an unpleasant feeling. John waited ten minutes before telling himself, "Oh, hang it. I will not let Sherlock bloody Holmes stop me from going to the loo."

It took another thirty seconds for John to get up, not because he was afraid that Sherlock would try something. It's fairly hard to walk to the loo with three _big_ cups of tea sloshing in your bladder. Oh, if only John had answered Sherlock earlier. What happens next wouldn't have happened at all.

As John stiffly walked by the sofa, Sherlock snapped up and leapt over the arm of the sofa. John braced himself for impact and was glad he did so, because a mass of Sherlock fell upon him and they hit the floor. Sherlock landed on top of John who laid twisted, upper body facing Sherlock, lower body supporting him on the right hip.

There was a moment of stillness, like the calm before the storm. Then Sherlock attacked. And John writhed violently and squeaked, squealed, and out-right belly laughed. He shouted and pleaded for Sherlock to stop, "I have GOT to go to the loo, Sherlock!"

Sherlock was relentless._ He_ did _not_ have to go to the loo and consequently did _not_ share any sentiment with John. Sentiment _really_ was not Sherlock's area.

John was getting old. He didn't like to think about it, but once this was over he would blame it on that no matter what.

As Sherlock dug his fingers into John's sides, John couldn't hold on anymore. He twisted one last time, unseated Sherlock, finally, and let go – laughing 'til the end.

Sherlock watched as John's laughter died away. He watched closely as he spotted a yellow liquid pool from under John's front. He watched and watched and watched.

Warmth crept up John's neck as he heard a deep rumbling come from the left of him. He knew that sound anywhere. Sherlock was laughing at him. The rumbling bubbled up and broke forth, ringing from his flatmate. Sherlock leaned against the sofa and laughed long and hard. Sometimes it was breathless, others loud, and still others high-pitched and giggly, like John's.

That was somewhat disturbing.

John carefully got up and went upstairs to change his clothes. Then he came back with a damp towel and dried up his mess. Sherlock staggered to his feet, drunk with silly giggles. He fell onto the sofa and lay there. John finished cleaning and went to the wash room, throwing the towel and his clothes in and adding vinegar. When he got back Sherlock's giggling had died down.

John wasn't sure if he should say anything. Sherlock cleared away his confusion with:

"You peed your pants, John." More giggles, "You laughed so ha-ha-hard you peed-" Sherlock burst into _another _fit of laughter.

John sighed. "Sherlock, breathe. You need to breathe or you'll faint." Sherlock's laughter turned breathless. No, of course he would do the opposite of what John said.

John stomped over to Sherlock and grabbed his shoulders.

"Sherlock, calm down, it wasn't even _that_ funny." He rubbed soothing circles into his friend's shoulders. Said friend nodded that yes, yes it was _that_ funny. It occurred to John that this was the hardest he had ever seen Sherlock laugh.

"Of course, you would manage to actually _die_ laughing. Can your stomach muscles even handle this much laughter?" Apparently Sherlock thought this was beyond hilarious. Silent laughter ensued.

Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock had to go to the loo.

**I hope you liked it. If there are any mistakes I didn't catch I won't bite if you tell me. John does get revenge, just in-case you weren't sure.**

**Thanks for reading. ~ Remy B.**


End file.
